


A Little Comfort Rarely Goes Amiss

by DixieDale



Category: Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:28:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25884340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: A three-part vignette, featuring, in order, Sergeant Major Gil Rawlins, Chief, then Goniff.Comfort comes in various forms.  And sometimes, giving a little comfort to someone else delivers a little bit of comfort back to you as well.  In any case, a little comfort rarely goes amiss.
Kudos: 3





	1. Like Minds

Sergeant Major Rawlins was, as the Yanks would say, down in the dumps. Assisting Lieutenant Garrison, helping with the four-man team stationed at the Mansion - that was more than enough to keep him on his toes. Add to that the politics (so to speak) at play up at HQ and on the local Base - both affecting his operation at the Mansion, and a great deal else, he was feeling more and more like a drowning man as the days went on. Though just how he came to be pouring out his frustrations to the pretty sister of Reverend Standish, he just wasn't sure.

It had been a chance encounter. He'd gone to the housegoods store to search for yet another coffee pot, Garrison having once again attempted to make coffee when the young officer had stumbled into the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning after another abbreviated night of no sleep. It had not gone well. 

Actually, it never did. Rawlins couldn't quite understand how a man who could come up with the most intricate, cunning plans - a man who could take apart a jammed weapon, clear it and reassemble it in record time, even in the dark - could manage to take a simple percolater - really only six parts, only four of which the man would have needed to tamper with, the knob already twisted tightly onto the lid and the stem just as tightly twisted into the basket - and cause so much damage! And what came out as a result??! Blimey!!! Even after straining that foul liquid through the tea strainer to get rid of the clumps of grounds, it had made his skin crawl and his stomach clinch!

So there he was, trying to decide which of the three models of coffee pots available had the best chance of surviving Garrison's next ill-fated attempt, wondering if he shouldn't get two just to be prepared, when he'd heard her voice. 

Ah, he did like her voice! Miss Rebecka Standish had such a calm, pleasing way about her, though how she managed that with trying to run the Orphanage and corral all those tykes he certainly didn't know. 

The previous Matron certainly hadn't; SHE'D had a perpetual scowl on her face, her voice harsh and ragged with ill-concealed temper; and that was when there had been far fewer charges at that converted parsonage addition. 

No one had been sorry to see Mrs. Deems head out for "a far better, more appreciative position!", even though she'd not even given a notice before Constable Miller caught her loading her bags into the car. What the woman thought, just packing up, not making any provisions for the tykes in her care, no one could quite figure. Lucky it was that Miss Standish, newly arrived to stay with her brother, the Reverend Daniel Standish, had immediately moved in to fill the gap - the youngsters missed not even one meal, though that first breakfast was quite late, considering Mrs. Deems hadn't seen to that before she left. 

Now everyone considered it a highly-pleasing change and the tykes looked much happier all around. 

They'd discussed the coffee pots, her finally suggesting one "that my brother managed to master, and he's not overly good with such things. I suppose it might be more promising than the others; I DO think that last one is overly complicated for what really should be a very simple process. I mean, does one really need a built-in timer? I always watch for the color of the coffee as it springs up into that clear knob, and find that quite sufficient. My brother uses the little twisting timer, of course, not being quite so able to see the difference between too weak and just right; his eyesight, you know. Perhaps that is why THAT model HAS a timer, though, to compensate for the red painted knob that you can't see through. Of course, had they not USED a red knob in the first place . . ."

Rawlins found himself nodding in agreement. "Always trying to sell something by adding a bit of sparkle or dash that catches the eye or a bit of novelty, not something that really adds value. Just one more thing to go wrong, in my estimation. Not like there's not enough of that in the day as it is. Same as with some of the blokes up at HQ or the Base; thinking to make things overly complicated when there's no need, or thinking to tamper with w'at is working out well in the first place, instead of properly supporting that w'at IS doing just fine as it is. Never really does the trick, to my mind."

He'd never understood how he'd been so injudicious as to mention such things to the lady, but she'd nodded in understanding sympathy, offered an example or two of her own. The next thing he knew, she was suggesting he join her for a cup of mint tea so that they might continue the conversation in more comfortable surroundings.

And then they were in that tiny parlor at the Orphanage, pot of tea on the table between them, her kind eyes giving him her undivided attention as he told her things he'd never really discussed with anyone else.

"At first just my feet were in the water, a bit cumbersome, but not really a problem, the rest of me being free to do the job. Now, it's like the water is up to my chin and coming up like there's just been a dam broke somew'ere," he admitted. "Some days, I'm not sure w'at the job even is anymore; who I'm to be fighting alongside, who's on the other side even. And it's not so much that I'm likely to wake up at the bottom of the pond; that's just war, and I can 'andle that. It's that I'm maybe not doing w'at they need me to be doing - the Lieutenant and 'is men, I mean. Somedays it seems like I am, even doing a right smart job of it, sometimes, but others - it's like I lose track of what winning even looks like. And if I don't know THAT, 'ow can I make sure I DO it? W'at it takes for the winning, I mean?"

"I get the feeling you know quite well what winning is, Gil," she offered along with that cup of mint tea. "And I think you keep that in full view, no matter what the challenges are. You are just that sort of a person. You are not likely to let them down, not if there is any way to avoid that. I imagine they are quite well aware of that, too, and appreciate it as I would."

That pleasant voice usually made him want to smile just at the hearing of it, even when it was just in passing, and today was no exception. But now, what particularly made him want to smile was that she had called him 'Gil', not 'Sergeant Major'. He was fairly sure that was the first time; surely he would remember if it had happened before.

{"She's pouring out tea; I'm pouring out a load of complaints. Seems I'm getting the better of it all. Still, it feels good, having someone to talk to, someone not directly involved in the whole thing. Well, she said she felt much the same, talking over the difficulties 'ere, with someone with a fresh view, someone not thinking to take it wrong. And there might be one or two I could 'elp with; can at least talk to Actor about seeing if 'e can understand that last batch of tykes that showed up. Never knew anyone who knew as many different languages as that man does."}

He sipped his tea, nibbled at the plain scone she'd slid onto his saucer, though he smiled to see she'd drizzled a zig-zagging bead of honey across the top, and went on, needing to get the rest out in the open as well. He hoped she didn't come to see him just as a complainer, but he didn't think she would, not from that sympathetic look in her eyes.

"And in the meantime, seems every day it's the same battles, or maybe a different battle, but still a battle. And not the ones you'd think, and many not ones you can ever really win. Some, I don't know how you'd even know, if you were winning, I mean. If it was out there, fighting on the lines - I could see that better, perhaps. At least, seems like it would be easier, being put to the job, given a rifle, told what the job was, who the enemy was, who your friends, your messmates were. At least you could maybe spot 'winning' when it came along."

"And you don't have that now, do you?" she asked with a knowing and sympathetic nod. Not really a question, more an understanding of what he was trying to say. "At least, not in that cut-and-dry way."

Well, she did understand. {"Well, I know that feeling all too well! Every time I think I can see my way clear, find the right way to deal with a situation, another situation shows up on my doorstep. Though calling a child a 'situation' doesn't seem right, and that's not how I look at it, not really. But each child BRINGS with them their own situation, adding one more into the basket. There were six when I came here; now well over twice, nearer three times that many, and I don't see it stopping, not with the war leaving so many without anyone to care for them properly. I totally can empathize - many a day I don't know if I am winning or not, or even if I would recognize what winning would look like."}

"Not so much," he sighed. It felt good to be talking this out, and if he could trust anyone to listen, not go charging off telling tales, he felt Rebecka Standish was that person. Not that he'd go telling her anything too off; that wouldn't be right, of course, to burden her that way. But she had such a kind way about her, a way of letting him pick and choose his words as he struggled to select just the right ones to describe how he felt about his place in the complicated scheme of things.

He wasn't sure just how, but by the time he'd left that quiet parlor at the Orphanage, he felt more at peace. 

{"A right comforting way she 'as about 'er, Miss Rebecka,"} he noted as he made his steady way out the door, to head back to the Mansion, back to his responsibilites. 

Perhaps it was the calm support in those pretty eyes. Perhaps it had been her soft voice, her words telling him she understood what he was feeling. Perhaps it was her reassurance that he WAS doing what he needed to be doing, WAS making a difference, perhaps in a way no one else was in a position to do. Perhaps it was that one quick touch of her hand to his as she listened to him struggle with saying all he needed to say.

Perhaps it was just her. Just Rebecka. 

"Such a comfortable person, she is, to be with. 'As a right comforting way about 'er, Miss Rebecka," he repeated to himself as he drove away.

Rebecka watched from the window as he drove away. She had to wonder at the new level of peace and contentment she felt. Even knowing she had to deal with the meal planning for the children, trying to make food for eleven stretch to meals for sixteen. Even knowing she had to figure out how to teach the three new arrivals, seeing as how they spoke only some dialect she'd never encountered before, nor had anyone she'd asked, though Gil had suggested the tall Italian from the Mansion might and would ask him at the first opportunity. 

Even knowing what challenges lay before her - somehow, that unexpected visit, coming in response to her impulsive invitation to the Sergeant Major from the Mansion when she'd met him in the housegoods store, had brought everything back into perspective for her. Just the quiet conversation, listening to the battles he was fighting, offering a few examples in return regarding her own battles - it all helped, provided a comfort nothing else had been able to provide.

She smiled, letting the curtain fall back into place, and turned to head back to the small desk on the far side of the kitchen from which she managed this so-essential place of refuge. She had several very challenging situations to deal with, after all. 

Somehow, though, she knew she would get the job done. Just as she knew Sergeant Major Gil Rawlins would get the job done as well. They might not be flashy, they might not be out in the thick of things, but one thing could be said of them - they stuck to it, and they got the job done. They could both take comfort in that. In that, and, just perhaps, in each other.


	2. Sometimes It's The Little Wins

Chief felt a surge of dismay at the words, but quickly hid it under a stolid demeanor. Still, he couldn't help how he felt. He'd really been looking forward to a little comfort, a little relief from that ever-increasing pain in his ankle - well, really, by now, from the left knee on down. From what the Sergeant Major was saying, though, that wasn't going to happen, not today.

"I'm sorry, Chief, really I am. But the big freezer is down; 'as been for the past four days, and they're not sure when they'll 'ave it fixed. Seems we're on w'at they call a waiting list, with the emphasis on 'waiting'. We didn't 'ave much in it, true, other than the ice and some bread and such, along with a few stray bits. Took w'atever there was over to the Orphanage, so as not to 'ave any waste, and not feeling right using it for the guards - would only 'ave been enough to treat two or three of them, not all, you see, and they 'ad their own rations. And not like the ice would 'ave lasted, anyway, even if I 'adn't included that in the batch."

Chief just looked resigned to the typical unfairness of the world and his current stream of bad luck. Landing wrong on that last parachute drop had banged up his ankle some, but not enough to slow him down much. At least, it didn't seem so at the time. But add in the pitch, crash and roll of that German jeep after the axle snapped, and the long hike to the exit point, and by the time they got through debriefing and back to the Mansion, it seems the ankle decided 'enough was enough!' and was sending a message of outrage to the rest of his leg, and THAT was reacting accordingly. Now even breathing seemed to increase the throb in that swollen part of his body, enough he could feel it as an inner pressure making even his eardrums hurt in sympathy. He'd been counting on that ice, having decided if he could just get the ankle under control, the rest would follow along.

"So, no ice," he proclaimed with a stoic air. "Maybe that ointment Doc Riley left with us -" only to see the sad shaking of the Sergeant Major's head.

"No dice there either?" He'd really been hoping for some of that; it worked better and faster than anything they'd come across before. Doc Riley had a real talent for concocting such things.

"I'm afraid not. There wasn't much left, and then Private Jenkins caught that recoil of the tire iron on 'is wrist when 'e was shifting that puncture, and we used the last. Perhaps the liniment we received in that shipment from the Base with the other supplies . . ." he offered hesitantly, certainly not with a great deal of confidence. He knew HE'D have to be desperate to give that remedy a try!

Casino snorted, "that stuff'll take care of his ankle, alright! Eat right through til his foot aint even attached anymore! You saw what it did to Milton's shoulder!"

Rawlins winced, remembering that red, blistering mass that was the result of only one light application of that eye-watering white liquid from the blue bottle, the one with the label promising 'From Bruises To Sprains - Comforting, Safe, Effective Relief! Good for everyone from tots to grandpops!' 

Chief shook his head, "I'll get by, stay off it for a day or so maybe, if I can. It'll heal," and that's all he would say. 

Well, there wasn't much choice - even something so simple as aspirin was beyond the possibilities for now, it would seem, much less anything more powerful in the way of a painkiller. It looked like the cupboard was truly bare.

Now, ensconced in that armchair, pondering over the chess board, pretending to be absorbed in his solitary game instead on the throbbing pain, the others would wince, but pretend just as strongly not to hear the occasional sharp inadvertent inhalation as that wounded ankle would get moved just a fraction too far in the wrong direction.

It wouldn't have been so dire, not under normal circumstances. A quick trip to Doctor AJ Riley in the village, a slightly quicker trip to the Cottage owned and occupied by Meghada O'Donnell, and all sorts of remedies would be available. 

Unfortunately, they were on strict lockdown, and not because of an upcoming mission, but because one of the infernal buttinskies up at HQ had decided to do what they called 'an audit'. 

Nothing and no ONE was allowed in or out of Mansion grounds til they were finished - and that included telephone calls as well. That meant they couldn't even CALL Doc Riley or Meghada, ask for a drop-off of necessities. 

Well, maybe not Meghada; she might still be off on one of those hush-hush jobs for Major Richards, it was more than likely, but the doctor would have been willing to make a stop at the Cottage and get what they needed from there. He was one of the few who had permission to be going inside, other than Goniff and the guys. 

And just to make that lock-down official, there were guards posted to ensure that restriction was enforced, and dire warnings had been handed out as to what any violations would cause.

If Garrison had been there, he would have declared an exception, bulled his way through somehow, but Garrison was somewhere undisclosed to "those who have no 'need to know', Sergeant Major. And it would seem you and those ruffians are NOT on the list of those who need to know. Orders are orders." Garrison hadn't even been able to ride back to the Mansion and get a fresh pack; had headed out right from HQ after their debriefing from THIS job, only having time to give them a fast "stay out of trouble, pay attention to Rawlins," before he was gone.

The afternoon was long and obviously painful for Chief, though he resolutely refused to head to the Dorm before anyone else did. Finally, when twilight came and the night settled in, and the guys closed up shop in the Common Room, Casino had helped him make it to his cot. Goniff had tucked his own pillow up under the throbbing ankle, and another he'd snaffled from Garrison's room under Chief's knee, and Actor had brought up a rubber multi-purpose bag from the kitchen. 

"Not filled with hot water, of course; your ankle doesn't need heat. Nor is it filled with ice, unfortunately, but I happened to remember the clear-out drain for the well pulls from a much lower level than the pump. By this time of the evening, the water obtained from there is bound to be several degrees colder than anything else we have to offer, and should help at least somewhat," he'd said with a rueful smile. 

His usually impeccable tunic showed signs of fighting with the rusty cap to that drain and the resultant splashes, but the conman didn't seem too concerned about that at the moment. The others were rather impressed all around with that bit of ingenuity, and Chief had to admit, it had helped for awhile, as did the pillows. Still, he hurt like hell, had for way too long, and it was starting to wear on him.

The night promised no better, obviously, from the drained and gaunt cast to the young man's face, and after checking to be sure they were all settled in like they were supposed to be, a concerned Sergeant Major actually went face to face with the newly-arrived Sergeant in charge of the lock-down, but to no avail. 

"Still being a stubborn arse," he growled to the disappointed men stretched out on their cots waiting for the verdict. "Tried to get 'im to let ME make a trip out for supplies, even suggested 'e send a guard along with me if 'e felt I wasn't to be trusted, and 'e was more than a little tickled to let me know I didn't rate as an exception any more than the lot of you!" 

Rawlins didn't include the scornful words that had been delivered, directed at the men inside that Dorm, but he had made a mental note to mention that little bit of malice and lack of reasonable cooperation to his fellow non-coms up at HQ and elsewhere. That high-and-mighty visitor would find himself on the outside of a few rough patches before long, maybe being reminded of who the enemy was, and more importantly, who the enemy WASN'T!

So Chief was a little more visibly irritable than usual, heaving a deep sigh each time someone would stir around in the darkness, shadows moving around, in and out that doorway, {"probably going to the john or something, but wish to hell they'd just settle down!"}, just as he drifted off to sleep. Then, he'd be in a fitful doze when he'd be awakened again by another round of rustling and once or twice a clattering as someone stumbled over something in the dark and started cursing under their breath.

Then, when he finally thought he could sleep, the whispering started, coming from all three of his teammates. He sat up and inhaled sharply, intending to lambast the whole lot of them when a flashlight came on, muffled by a pair of blankets tucked around the doorframe. 

"What the . . .!" he exclaimed, blinking in the sudden beam of light, closer to losing his temper than he'd been all day.

"Now, don't get yerself in an uproar, Indian. Here, this should help," Casino offered in a nonchalant drawl, drawing a small bottle out of his pocket.

"And this too, Chiefy!" Goniff offered with a wide grin, pulling one thing after another out of a canvas bag he had attached to his belt, dropping them on the cot next to Chief. "Knew I'd find just w'at you were needing at 'Gaida's place!" he smirked, as he turned to fetch the pitcher and a glass from the ledge where they kept such things.

Actor smiled and nodded, "but that is all to be applied AFTER I do the pressure massage. I knew I had seen the technique illustrated in one of Meghada's books, but was reluctant to try it without refreshing my memory. It seems it is very important that it be done in precisely the right way, always in a specific direction depending on which part of the ankle and foot you are applying the pressure."

"But first, you get these down," Casino directed, opening that bottle, thrusting out a fist, turning and opening it to show two tablets. "Doc Riley gave me enough for a couple days. Said two every six hours, keep off that damned ankle, and do all the rest of the stuff these jokers have lined up for you. Said you can take them with booze, but just one small glass each time, mixed halfway with water, nothing hard in between times. He'll be up to check on you as soon as that idiot shifts outta the way."

Chief frowned in confusion, though automatically reaching for the pills and the small glass of whiskey and water Goniff eagerly held out for him.

"Doc Riley? How did you get to talk to Doc Riley?" he asked after he swallowed down the dose.

Casino smirked, "seems the guy on the side gate never heard of the Dumb John routine. Worked just like a charm, Sergeant Major distracting him, me just waltzing out in that borrowed uniform Rawlins got for me. Did the same comin' back. No sweat!"

Somehow Chief wasn't sure it had been all that simple, but he'd wait for the details til later.

He looked down at the book laying on the cot beside him, opened now to a complicated drawing of a leg, ankle and foot, blood vessels and muscle groups all in different colors, with arrows and tiny print. 

"And the book?"

Actor smiled, glancing up from his careful study of those arrows, the tiny instructions along the side. "Goniff was able to locate it in Meghada's library based on my description. Well, since he was on a shopping run anyway . . ."

Now Chief was getting really concerned. That was one serious lockdown in place - he distinctly remembered a mention of "and they have orders to shoot, if necessary!" What the hell was Casino doing roaming around running a con on those bozos with the rifles? What was Goniff doing making a 'shopping run'? And how had he managed it?

Goniff grinned with pure delight as he explained. Well, he did like a little impromptu second-story work, particularly in such a good cause! And getting the better of that arse who thought to run roughshod, letting Chiefy suffer like that, that was pure honey on his tongue!

"Just like the Lieutenant is always telling us. Those on the look-out for someone, they look all around, they look down and to the sides and under stuff. Mostly they don't think to look UP. So, I went out the library window to that big tree alongside, down through the shadows and across til I got into the trees, and you know they pretty much stretch from 'ere almost to the Cottage. Almost like a 'ighway up there, if'n you're careful not to take a misstep! There's enough of a moon out I could see my way.

"Snagged a couple bottles of the good stuff w'ile I was there, like w'at you just downed. Now, this 'ere's comfrey," pointing to a pile of greenery the size of a heaped-up dinner plate. "We pound some of that out and mix in a little water or something and make w'at 'Gaida calls a poltice. Knew right w'ere it's growing in 'er garden, could tell by the smell and feel since it's right up next to the sage but its leaves being a lot bigger and scratchy-like. But that's for tomorrow. For tonight, there's Actor's giving you a good rubdown like it says in that book, with that bruise creme 'Gaida puts up and keeps in the pantry. Took two of the three jars she 'ad there; she won't mind, not if we need it. Then, we wrap it nicely with some of them stretchy bandages Casino got from Doc Riley, and then comes THIS!"

There was a second canvas sack, this one about the size of a head of cabbage, and the pickpocket opened it, displaying a dirty mass of sawdust.

"Sawdust?" Chief asked, puzzled. USED sawdust, by the looks of it, grains of soil and shredded leaves mixed throughout.

Goniff scoffed, "well, yes, on the outside, from that pile of mulch at the corner of the garden, but that's just to keep the cold in. Got ice! Not much, mind you, 'Gaida not 'aving much on 'and, but enough for a nice ice pack for tonight! Well, wouldn't 'ave done much good to bring more anyroad, not with the freezer 'ere busted. No way to keep it from melting before you could use it. But I filled the bin down there so more would be coming along, if we need it. Can make another trip if that bloke in charge don't get wise."

And so comfort was delivered, and everyone settled in to rest. Even then Chief found his night being disturbed, since someone kept asking him, pretty much every couple of hours or so, if he was feeling any better. 

But somehow he couldn't bring himself to minding so very much; that asking seemed to be as much a balm to his spirit as the rest was to his ankle. And between the voiced concern, the pills and the drink, the massage and the creme and the ice, he could feel the pain drifting away. And maybe almost as much as all that helped? Knowing the lengths his teammates, AND Gil Rawlins, had gone to in order to provide him with some comfort, that helped one heck of a lot too.

And his wasn't the only smile that ceiling received. Each of the men had given one or two themselves, knowing what they'd accomplished for their team mate, the little bit of comfort they'd been able to deliver. Even Gil Rawlins found his mouth stretching into a wide grin, picturing that intruder's face if he only KNEW what had been accomplished in spite of him and his orders.

So it WASN'T one of the big battles of the war, one of the dramatic cons the Lieutenant and the team becoming known for. Actor had quoted someone earlier as saying 'Sometimes it is the little wins that touch the deepest places in a man's soul,' and after tonight, they all kinda figured he was right.


	3. A Little Comfort Rarely Goes Amiss

Watching the mark out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the right moment, Goniff had realized he was being watched just as closely. Well, in his line of work, you developed a strong instinct for such things. Yes, he was being watched, if very discreetly.

Oh, not by anyone likely to shout 'Hey, Rube!', or whatever the Italian or German equivalent was, but by their team leader. Garrison kept watching him out of the corner of his eye, just a flicker of a glance, but enough Goniff was starting to get a little edgy, wondering if Garrison had seen something Goniff hadn't spotted. He took a careful look around, didn't see anything that would indicate trouble. Still, another glance at Garrison caught that slight tinge of concern in those green eyes, making the pickpocket want to snort in exasperation. Let the Warden worry about his OWN part of the job; Goniff had this part covered!

Yes, he'd come out on the wrong side of the first part of the job, over at the Consulate, but that didn't mean he couldn't still get the job done! So he was hobbling a little. So he wasn't going to win any beauty contest, not the way his face looked after that officer had 'explained' his shortcomings with more force than the pickpocket really thought had been necessary over a spilled drink. 

Still, none of that meant he couldn't snaffle that set of keys like the Lieutenant planned for him to do. Being a little banged up didn't mean he'd lost his talent, his skills, leastwise when none of that banging had come down on his fingers!

In a way, it was even kinda amusing, if you discounted the way his ribs ached from the lambasting with that ruddy riding crop the bloke thought made him look so impressive and all. Seems things weren't all that different in the Italian army than they were in the rest; a pissed-off officer, especially one who'd just been raked over the coals by HIS commanding officer, just naturally looked to someone without all the bird trot to lay out his frustrations on. Just Goniff's bad luck it had been him and not someone already wearing that uniform for real. 

Still, that didn't mean Garrison should be watching him like that! 

Well, maybe it was that shiny display of trinkets laid out on that side bookcase the Lieutenant was leary about, but wasn't like Goniff had even thought about making a play for any of that, even if he'd had the time. He was too busy being yelled at in a language he didn't understand, too busy ducking his head and pretending to agree with the officer's yelling, all without saying a betraying word.

Then it was over, the job done. They were headed back, and Goniff had really put the whole thing out of his mind in favor of dreaming about partaking of some of the (admittedly limited) comforts available at home. He'd sighed as he settled into the corner of the rear seat, "I'm for a shower, a drink and a good night's sleep, eh, guys?"

There was a murmur of weary agreement, and Casino snorted, "damn! You got that straight! What a trip! I can't wait to get back and get into a shower and get cleaned up! Like you said, a shower, a stiff drink, some solid sleep! Like one a your poets woulda said, Beautiful, "ah, such bliss!", or some shit like that."

"I must agree, Casino, with the sentiment anyway. While the water will most likely be not hot, not at this hour, and the cot likely no softer than when I left it, still a little comfort rarely goes amiss. And as for a drink, I believe there is a decent bottle of Scotch in the cupboard of the Common Room that is simply crying for our attention." Actor made no mention of that half bottle of more than decent brandy he had secreted away; it would prove a nice topper for that Scotch, after Garrison had settled in for the night.

Chief didn't say much, simply settled in for the drive, determined to get there as quickly and efficiently as possible. 

Garrison was, if anything, even quieter, just a word here and there in response to a comment or a question, then not even that as he seemed to settle into a dark cloud of his own making.

Goniff was getting very disturbing vibes from their leader. Now it seemed a pissed off Italian officer wasn't the only sort he was going to have to deal with this go-round! Something was wrong, and while that was bad enough, to not have a clue as to the cause, that was even worse, especially since all that seemed to be directed right at him!

At Garrison's order the jeep had stopped at the Cottage, even though it was dark inside. Seems the O'Donnell woman was out and gone again; well, Goniff had told him that would be the case. 

"Richards 'ad 'er out and about; wasn't due back 'ome for another week or two, Lieutenant! No reason for me not to go back with you and the others," he argued for what had to be the third time since Garrison had delivered his edict.

That didn't stop the Lieutenant from issuing a stern order, no give in his voice.

"Inside, Goniff. Get into a hot shower; that should take care of some of the aches and pains. See if she has some aspirin in the case. Get some rest, but be back at the Mansion by 0830 - everyone can sleep in a little, but I want everyone back in training on the range by then."

Goniff flushed in the darkness. His repeated protests, that with Meghada being gone, he didn't see any reason for him NOT to be going back with the others, had been pretty much ignored. Well, not entirely. It HAD gotten him a glare that burned even in the dimming light, a glare that told him arguing wasn't going to cut it, not this time.

It seems he was still being singled out for that cold shoulder Garrison had been giving him since they piled into the jeep after the debriefing and headed back. Yes, whatever Garrison was pissed about, it was all being centered on the pickpocket. At least, it didn't seem like anyone ELSE was getting glared at!

{"Like I messed up, and I didn't! Got some new bruises, maybe not moving just right yet, but aint like I deserve to be set to one side! And 'Gaida aint even 'ere, so it's not like I 'ave any pampering to look forward to! Everyone else is 'eaded back for a nice drink, some talk, maybe some cards to unwind, but I'm not included, seems like. Well, I can 'ave a nice drink 'ere, but don't much fancy being by myself right now! Don't seem right, some'ow!"}. 

He would have pretended to pout just a little to let Garrison know just how he felt about all that - IF he'd had the energy to force his mouth into that slight droop, let his face form that particular expression, but frankly, he didn't have it to spare. And besides, he had to admit, it didn't look like pouting, real or pretend, would improve Garrison's mood one little bit.

The others glanced at each other. They weren't quite sure what had the Lieutenant so upset with their pickpocket, but something sure wasn't right between them. Yeah, so it had taken Goniff the second try for that little fast-finger job, but that hadn't been his fault. No one could have predicted that cute little bimbo edging up out of nowhere, drawing the bigshot's attention, causing him to turn just as Goniff was making his move. And Goniff had recovered quickly, made a second, this time successful try within ten minutes or so.

And it had been to the Englishman's credit that he hadn't let that prior incident put him off his mark anyway. That major being torn apart by the visiting senior officer, then, obviously furious at the take-down, turning to find a likely target for his frustrated anger, had settled on the meek little blond private handing around drinks. The encounter had been deliberate, anyone could see that, and there had been no way for Goniff to step aside quickly enough to avoid that bump, that spilled drink, and then being hauled off to the hallway for a little misplaced venting on the officer's part.

Anyhow, the pickpocket had done the job just fine, when it came down to it. And, hell, Garrison had seemed to think so too, at least til after the debriefing was over! Then, all the way back to Brandonshire, over that long jeep ride, the officer had seemed to get more and more ticked, til the atmosphere inside was like riding alongside a ticking bomb.

Actor had tried to say something, in a quiet aside, to get Garrison to stop fuming, along with stop glaring in their pickpocket's direction. Among other things, that last mad dash for the coast had left them all sleep-deprived and teetering on the edge of exhaustion, Goniff perhaps more than anyone. And it wasn't beneficial to the overall moral to have such tension in the group. That well-meaning effort got the tall conman a harsh, "when I want your opinion, Actor, I'll ask for it! The last time I looked, I was in charge, not you!"

Casino and Chief had given the flushed Italian a questioning look, only to get a 'I tried!' shrug of confusion. Together they just gave Goniff a sympathetic touch on the shoulder as he slowly got out of the jeep and trudged toward the garden gate, glancing back over his shoulder once or twice as if hoping he'd get a reprieve from the smoldering officer.

"Inside, Goniff! Just follow orders, can't you?" Garrison ground out, then abruptly motioned for Chief to head out. Goniff waited at the metal gate, staring off after the jeep, shaking his head in frustration, before heading inside for that hot shower, a drink, and some well-earned figurative pounding of his blond head against a convenient wall. Had to be easier than pounding a way through that wall of stubborn or whatever it was that Garrison had around him tonight.

The sound of the gate opening, closing, then the kitchen door being unlocked, brought him to full alert. Now, that collapsing across the bed without bothering to get dressed didn't seem quite as good idea as it had when he'd dragged himself out of that long hot shower where he'd probably drained the boiler dry. One thing about here versus the Mansion - the boiler worked just fine and not just at certain hours! His breath caught in his throat as he tensed, trying to make sense of the sounds of movement in the next room. 

"It's me," came a low voice from the kitchen, and Goniff relaxed, eased his hand away from the revolver Meghada kept hidden under the hanging bolster pillow. 

Well, he hadn't been expecting anyone, and he hadn't exactly been in the frame of mind to be dealing nice and easy with anyone who might have just taken the chance on burglarizing the place. Not that that was too likely, considering this was Brandonshire and most everyone knew the O'Donnell woman would get right pissy if that happened. Still, things could happen; he knew that quite well.

But at least now, if there was going to be any bullets flying, they would be the verbal kind, not the other. Not that those couldn't hurt ruddy bad too, but at least you didn't end up explaining bloodstains on the rug to the resident redhead.

"You gonna tell me w'at I did wrong? Got the job done, didn't I? So w'at 'appened that yer so pissed about?" Goniff said in an aggrieved voice as he pushed himself into more of a seated position and set his drink down on the bedside table, pausing to turn up the oil lamp sitting alongside. He glared defiantly at the familiar shadow in the doorway. 

His hair was almost dry from the hot shower, but he hadn't bothered to do more than tumble backwards across the bed afterwards, tugging the light quilt halfway over him. Well, except for a detour to the kitchen, pouring that heavy portion of bourbon from the bottle in the cabinet - water glass, not a shot glass; he didn't have the energy to spare to get up for a refill later. Now he was stretched out against the heaped-up pillows, upper body raised on bended arms to show a defiant face to the man who'd just arrived.

Garrison, dressed in a fresh uniform, stood in the doorway, seeing the defiant posture, the stubborn frown on his pickpocket's face. Seeing as well the bruises and red welts, the two places that crop had broken the skin, seeing those sunken blue eyes, the translucent shadows underneath, seeing the pulse throb in Goniff's throat, at his temple. 

Coming closer, he reached out and picked up the glass from the table and took a sip, then another deeper one. He tried letting the slight delay, plus the burn of the liquor in his throat, temper what he wanted, needed to say. It didn't work, and his voice was strained as he finally answered that frustrated question.

"You got hurt, that's what happened," he said, forcing the words past the tightness in his throat. "You got hurt, you almost got killed. TWICE, Goniff! Twice, almost three times! On one job!! You KNOW how that makes me feel? You KNOW what that makes me want to do? Need to do??!"

Goniff's eyes were huge, taking in the emotion evident in that incomprehensible speech. His puzzled frown made his bewilderment unmistakable. Garrison was angry at what? Who? Not Goniff, it would seem. HIMSELF, maybe??! Cause Goniff ended up on the wrong end of a job? What the hell??

Well, yeah, it was true, that he'd gotten hurt, almost got killed, and he'd just as soon have avoided all that if possible, but it hadn't been! But that happened more often, to each of them, than anyone liked. No one was arguing that! Wasn't like he'd done it on purpose, after all! Wasn't like it was Garrison's fault or anything, neither! Getting hurt, coming close to getting their lights put out for good - that was unfortunately just part of the dangerous territory they lived in anymore.

Goniff's voice echoed that bewilderment as he cautiously felt his way into what he was sure was a conversation he didn't have the energy for right now. But when Craig was this wound up, there was not a lot of sense in thinking you could wait and deal with it later; delaying matters just didn't make things go any easier, and could cause more problems than you could ever think possible. Craig Garrison was a complicated man, no doubt about it.

"No, just 'ow does it make you feel, make you need to do?" his eyes squinted almost shut with the effort to focus on the tense man standing there, glaring at him. He really wished Craig would return that glass; he NEEDED another drink! 

Without a word, the glass was extended out, as if the other had read his mind, and he took it, took a deep swallow in preparation for whatever was to come, before handing it back. He had a feeling it was going to be challenging, whatever was ahead

Garrison ran his hand through his hair in sheer frustration before he exploded.

"I care about you. I care about ALL of you, but especially you! Sending you into that kind of setup, knowing you could get hurt, I deal with that. Watching, knowing you're GETTING hurt, somehow I deal with that too, for all of you. Deal with it in order to get the damned job done! How do I justify that? Or am I just kidding myself, kidding you? How can both of those things be true? Damn it, Goniff, how do I balance all of that and still come out sane??!"

Goniff shook his head in disbelief. Well, he'd wondered a time or two how Garrison kept it all together, kept his mind balanced between what was necessary, what had to be, and the way he WANTED things to be. {"Guess 'e's not managing that quite as well as it looks sometimes!"}

"Acourse they can both be true, Craig!" he argued now, keeping his voice firm, but nowhere near harsh - trying for soothing, reassuring. If he made sure to show no sign of the amusement he saw in this whole absurd conversation, there WAS a rueful acknowledgement there, an understanding finally of what had caused it. 

Well, put it down to his quirky sense of humor, but he DID find it a little amusing, Garrison standing there in his crisp uniform, glaring down like an emotional teenager having a hormone-laced meltdown, obviously having a crisis of conscience, while HE was wearing just one corner of a quilt, trying to calm the waters, trying to be the rational adult in the room. 

With anyone else, Goniff would have felt at a disadvantage in more than one way, but not with this man, not here, not now. He had too much else he had to focus on, like walking Craig back off that ledge he was pacing around on before the man decided to just take a wild leap off into who knows where!

"They both ARE true! But you do your job, WE do our jobs, cause we 'ave to, because they need doing. You aren't kidding yourself, Craig; you're 'olding it together, for us, so that you can KEEP watching, can keep those eagle eyes w'ere they can do the most good - looking out for trouble, looking for new cons to get us all 'ome again after we get the ruddy job done. You're watching and plotting and planning, so you can pull our arses out of the fire w'en we need you to, keeping ruddy HQ from pulling a fast one! And w'en you're needing to fret, you try and wait til after all the bullets are flying and we're all back - just like you did this time, I suppose. 

"And w'en you need to let it all out, need to let it fly, you make sure you do it w'en and where it's safe, like 'ere. Like now. With someone who understands you and aint gonna disappear on you just cause you did some yelling. Someone like me. Someone like 'Gaida. Someone like the guys, too, maybe, and Sergeant Major, at least for part of it. THAT'S 'ow you keep it all in balance, Craig! That's 'ow you 'AVE kept it in balance, and that's w'at you 'ave to keep doing!"

He took a deep breath, then gave a wry laugh. "Afterwards, w'en this is all over, all the bullets stop flying for good, THEN you can start fretting full time about giving one of us a chore and us getting a 'angnail or a splinter, alright? Won't mind that, and probably something you're not going to outgrow any'ow; but for now? For now, we need you go on doing just like you're doing. We may fuss and grumble, but that's just for show, more often than not. We NEED you, Craig, just like you are, no mistake about that."

Garrison's eyes shifted in the lamplight, and he stepped closer. There was silence for just a little longer than Goniff had expected, but the pickpocket waited, let Garrison gather his thoughts again. No sense in interfering in what was obviously a difficult process for the man. 

He'd often thought about it, that thought process. Garrison wasn't like Casino, who resisted the very idea of any deep thinking. No, Craig was more likely to go so deep in the thinking that he got himself trapped in the dark shadows and lost his way back out again. Sometimes he needed someone to reach in and grab him by the shirt collar and give a good tug to pull him back, get him going in the right direction again.

Then Craig gave a reluctant laugh, not one of amusement, more one of acceptance. His voice had dropped.

"So, alright. You're right, I know that." He gazed down at the slender man staring up at him so patiently, waiting for him to come to grips with reality. 

"But seeing you hurt . . .it makes me . . . It makes me want to erase those shadows under your eyes," and he leaned in to run an index finger gently across that area, as if to demonstrate. 

When that didn't quite do the job, didn't quite express the depths of what he was feeling, he moved to sit on the side of the bed, followed that with a soft pressing of his lips, first under the left eye, then the right, feeling Goniff's eyelids flutter shut in response, heard the harsh swallow as his pickpocket reacted to his touch.

"It makes me want to soothe away every bruise," his hand reaching out to do just that with the marks along Goniff's cheek and jaw.

"It makes me want to do whatever it takes to let you rest, sleep, start to heal."

Goniff wasn't totally sure where Garrison was headed with all this, but all in all, Goniff wasn't opposed to receiving some comfort. In fact, it sounded like a ruddy good idea to him. He might not have the energy for much, but it didn't look like much was going to be expected of him anyway, other than letting Craig do a little comforting. He decided that Actor was right - that a little comfort rarely went amiss, provided it was the right person doing that comforting.

And what followed, all careful, slow, gentle easing of every remaining bit of tension the pickpocket had in his battered body, certainly was a good start toward that, if you considered the totally-limp, near comatose condition Goniff was left in. 

The only relief Garrison had sought was what he obtained in the giving, but that was more than enough. Now, watching Goniff's breathing slowing, watching sleep coming closer even though he could see his pickpocket was fighting the urge, trying to continue a desultory conversation neither man could even remember the essence of, he smiled. {"More than enough - all I could ask for, really."}

He eased himself up, checked himself in the mirror, swept his hair back into place and rapidly did all else that was necessary to make himself presentable once again.

"You 'ave to go back?" came as a sleepy murmur.

"Yes, I need to deliver a little comfort to the rest of the guys," he offered, carefully watching Goniff's face in the mirror. From that lifted head and raised brow, the arch look he was getting, he'd played that just right, he acknowledged with a grin he felt on the inside, but didn't let show on his face.

"A little comfort for the rest of the guys," Goniff repeated carefully, leaning up to get a closer look at Craig's face. "Should I ask just w'at kind of comfort you're thinking of delivering there?"

Craig couldn't help the burst of quiet laughter now. He was quick to answer though, not wanting to get Goniff too awake, not when he'd been just on the verge of sleep. A little teasing was one thing, taking it any farther would be counterproductive.

"Not the same kind, I promise. I don't think Meghada will mind if I liberate a good bottle of whiskey, do you? Seems the supplies at the Mansion ran a little short after that last foraging run by the Base Inspector. The guys weren't all that happy, so I promised I'd locate something a little special for their comfort and relaxation tonight. Told them it might take me a little while, though; that I wanted to check on you while I was out."

"Hmmmmph! Well, that's alright then. Expect they'll enjoy that," Goniff muttered, snuggling back down in the covers with a deep sigh. He opened one sleepy eye, "eleven 'undred 'ours, you said? That's w'at, one o'clock real time?" watching Garrison hopefully.

Garrison laughed once more, softly, pausing to gentle ruffle that blond hair on his way out the door. 

"0830, slug-a-bed! In the morning! Eight-thirty, REAL TIME! And don't be late! Don't make me send Casino to roust you out!"

"You could come yourself," came with a chuckle. "Likely pay more mind if you came yourself."

"And then it WOULD be eleven hundred hours! We don't have time for that. We're headed out again day after tomorrow; we have things we need to go over before then," listening to that resigned groan.

"G'night, Craig," came softly in the darkness, followed by a deep yawn.

"Night, Goniff. Sweet dreams," and Garrison headed out, more than a little reluctantly, back to the Mansion, the guys, remembering to grab up a decent bottle of whiskey from the cupboard on his way out, locking up as he went. 

He might even share in a quick glass of comfort himself; it wouldn't be as good as staying here, but it would maybe help let him sleep. 

He thought again to that final muttering he'd heard from his pickpocket and laughed softly to himself. {"And he's right. A little comfort rarely goes amiss."} glancing back at the Cottage in the rearview mirror.


End file.
